


the parting of your lips, the ache in your eyes

by vetedocking



Category: Superfruit
Genre: Dirty Talk, Fluff and Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-09-07
Packaged: 2018-10-26 19:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10792920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vetedocking/pseuds/vetedocking
Summary: you sing dirty lyrics to each other in the back row of choir.after school, there are aim convos.at night, your mustang gets parked in a empty parking lot.you haven’t left this town yet but it already feels like a foreign place as you build new homes in each other's bodies using shaking hands and inexperienced lips.(one-shots in superfruit book prose)





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> like many of you i'm sure, the superfruit book lent itself to a whole slew of new head-canons. i decided to articulate some of them in a series of disrupted narrative one-shots. 
> 
> be mindful that there will be book spoilers sprinkled throughout if you're trying to avoid them.
> 
> title comes from 'winter break' by muna.
> 
> enjoy.
> 
> x

**february 2014 -**

you’re back at the ihop on wilshire and hauser. 

months ago, you were sitting in this very booth formulating a plan with your best friend for a side project.

months ago, he was wearing a silver band on his left hand ring finger.

months ago, you spent hours staring at it, wishing you could rip it off and throw it across the living room of the apartment you no longer shared. the night him and travis broke up, he showed up on your doorstep and this was a sight you got to witness. 

it was just as glorious as you had conceived in your head.

waking up the next morning with reruns of spongebob still looping on the television and him curled into your chest on your sofa, you felt for the first time in over a year.

hope.

it warmed your cheeks. 

lightened your body. 

seared your chest. 

gave you heartburn. 

and then left as quickly as it did last time. 

you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, but weeks and weeks have passed with nothing aside from a few mornings being awoken by him crawling into your bed for snuggles and the occasional passing innuendo.

you’re in no position to ask or suggest anything. you have someone, but you both know that all mitch would have to do is ask and it would be done. you’d dump alex and fall back into old habits. 

there’s a hickey on his neck. you stare at it and it stares back, makes you nauseous, reminds you that other boys have seen him the way that you have. 

the boys in west hollywood talk. they say words that make your ears blush, make you clench your fists, make your stomach turn. 

mitch doesn’t notice you staring because he’s staring at his phone. his thumb is swiping. you narrow your eyes.

“are you cruising for dick on grindr during our sunday brunch?”

he exits the app and sets his phone down immediately. “you were ignoring me. i got bored. you didn’t even notice that i ate all your hashbrowns."

you look down and sure enough there’s a quarter of your plate wiped almost clean.

“we have a photoshoot tomorrow and you’re going to be so bloated,” you tease.

he scratches his beard. it's getting long. soft. no longer scratching your skin during cuddles. “i don’t care. i don’t know why everyone in this city pretends they have celiac disease. this shit is not fun,” he pauses, “can I have your toast?” he asks, not bothering for an answer before reaching for it. you slap his hand away.

“you can have some of my bacon if you want,” you offer.

“no, stop trying to get me to eat your meat,” the corner of his mouth is lifting up, you laugh but it also slightly hurts. you take an over-exaggerated bite of your bacon, moaning theatrically, and he mutters something about you being a murderer.

“why were you staring off into space and ignoring me for a solid 10 minutes?” he then asks.

“just thinking.”

“about?”

“you.”

there’s no point in lying. you’re not even sure if you _can_ lie to each other at this point. 

you only buy each other’s lies when you want to. when you don’t want to deal with certain truths. 

“hmm,” he sends you another smile and you think about how handsome he is, “what about me?”

“i’m just,” you reconsider your words, but at the same time you need to be honest and talk about this. you haven’t spoken a word to each other about it since the night of the breakup, swiping it under the rug and moving on. moving back in with each other. focusing on work. there's always work to focus on. “are you okay?” you ask instead, “with everything? you’ve been going on all these dates recently an–"

“is this about me being a slut?” he shifts in the booth.

“no,” you’re quick to answer, “you’re not–“

“i am, though,” he takes a sip of his iced coffee, maintains eye contact. you have to look away. 

you’re speaking to your buttered toast and half of a serving of bacon now. “i’m not judging, you can sleep with as many guys as you want. however much you want. i mean… i love sex.”

he snorts, “i know you do.”

“i just want to make sure that you’re not being, like,” the plastic-looking butter on this white bread is _fascinating,_ “self-destructive, or whatever."

mitch sucks in a breath, “it’s more self-preserving.” you look up, eyes meet. “travis and i… we were engaged, we moved in together. it was _serious._ and then he just... _dumps_ me.”

you get it. it hurts how you can mean so much to someone and then suddenly it feels you don’t mean anything at all to them. you’re tossed aside. you feel used. you never want to open yourself up like that ever again. 

you decide to use instead of being used. balance the scales. gain back some power. 

“i just need to have fun for a while,” mitch says, adjusting his hair, “i promise i’m being safe, daddy.”

“okay, good. just wanted to make sure,” you clear your throat, finish the rest of your bacon, “love you."

you want to say that if mitch needs a safety blanket you're always there. 

he can always come home.

the others are just bookmarks while you and him figure out what to do next with your pens.

“i love you too,” he says, and you’re now getting emotional. you’re in the middle of a barely-occupied ihop, get it together for fucks sake. “don’t worry, i’m just doing what people our age are supposed to be doing.” 

you nod, unable to find your words.

“can we get the check?” he flags down the nearest waitress. you turn to her to watch her nod and when you look back your toast is in mitch's hands.

“bitch!” you exclaim but you’re laughing and so is he. 

“she's hungry!” he explains, "we’re going to café gratitude next time.”

you hate that place, with how they make you order ("i am... lucky. amazing. vivacious. fucking annoyed at this menu right now.") and their stupid 'thought of the day.' 

but you’ll go for him.

all he has to do is ask.


	2. two

**july 2011 –**

your skin these days sticks to everything it touches. 

right now it’s pressed against familiar skin. 

your hands are unsteady. 

your voice is unsteady. 

your shitty bed frame is unsteady, shaking.

“so good,” you mutter into his collarbone, sucking a mark into your favorite spot. 

he clutches onto your shoulder blades, whines, “no — filming in 2 days."

you do it anyways. his skin is salty, hot to the touch, but your mouth feels even hotter. 

“ _scott_ ,” he warns.

you pull back, inspect your work, “won’t show. gonna put you in a button up shirt anyways.” 

your groin meets the back of his thighs and he whines again, hickey forgotten. 

he whispers a string of profanities as you pull back slightly. “okay?” you ask, grinning, trying to pick up the rhythm you’ve started.

his hands move from your shoulders to your lower back, trying to press down deeper, “oh god, shut up,” he groans. 

“tell me,” you breathe out.

“fuck, you feel so good, you already know it’s good,” his back arches, and a shooting pleasure spikes up your spine starting from where you're are joined.

you gasp and eyes slip shut, focusing on depth and speed. moving one of his legs to hook further up your waist, pushing in deeper. he thrusts back against you in a way that is sinful and beneath your eyelids his lips find yours. “god, _fuck_ , i missed you so much, couldn’t stop thinking about you like this,” you say against them, voice raw.

he suddenly pulls back, and your eyes snap open, searching his face. 

he looks scared. 

he winces slightly when you leave his body and slowly lower his legs, still breathing heavily.

you lay beside him, waiting for words. you lick your worn-out lips, suddenly so aware of your heart beating, of the perspiration tickling your hairline, the low hum of the fan across the room.

he finally looks from the ceiling, to you. he can tell you’re confused and terrified, “sorry,” he breathes.

you immediately take his hand, “it’s okay,” you say, “did i… did i hurt you?”

“no.” 

you breathe a sigh of relief. and then nothing. he frees his hand from yours and it’s another punch to the gut. 

“i’m gonna,” he clears his throat, “i’m gonna go take a shower.” he gets up, covering what you’ve already seen with the clothes discarded on the hardwood floor, leaving you on a twin bed of white sheets.

you wipe the sweat from your forehead and retrieve your boxers from the foot of the bed before resuming the position of your back against the pillows. 

there’s another bed adjacent from yours, meant to be 'his,' that's only unmade because you purposefully messed it up to look that way when your parents popped by several weekends ago. 

you and him have been living in this shoe-box sized hotel room for almost a month now and you’ve spent every night in 'your' bed together. 

sometimes you fall asleep without touching each other, on opposite ends, facing away from each other. 

sometimes you meet in the middle, still on your respective pillows, and chat for an hour before drifting off. 

sometimes you wake up in a sweat due to body heat of mitch resting against you. he’s drooled against your chest, tangled your legs together. it’s the dead of summer, sweltering hot in the valley. far too hot for cuddles but you do it anyways.

sometimes you curl around him in your sleep, subconsciously throw an arm around his waist, a forehead against the back of his neck, your morning wood against the back of his thighs.

those mornings used to start with profuse apologizes and awkwardness but lately you relished them, brought his body closer and kissed the back of his neck as he wiped the sleep from his eyes before groggily teasing, “get that _thing_ away from me, samantha.” 

they seemed less like a mistake and more like a buildup to tonight. of course, in your mind that buildup didn’t lead you to here, picking up your phone from the bedside table and scrolling through twitter to distract your brain while he showered alone. 

when mitch comes back from the bathroom he’s dressed in a clean boxer and tank top combo, and he sits on his bed, maintaining eye contact with you, clearly indicating that he’s ready to talk. you sigh at your phone, turning it off and placing it on your chest. you frown at him, “are you gonna sleep in that bed tonight?”

he replies with a shrug, “do you want me to?”

“i don’t think i could fall asleep without you beside me at this point,” you say honestly and this makes him put his face in his hands. you furrow your brow, “is this about travis?” you ask. 

“what?” mitch asks, his palms still pressed against his mouth.

“travis,” you repeat, and when mitch lifts his head it’s obvious by the look on his face that he’s forgotten about his boyfriend back home in texas.

“fuck,” he whispers.

“i’m sorry,” you say hastily, “i didn’t mean for this—" you say, but it’s a lie. you wanted this. hoped for it from the second you called mitch and asked if he wanted to try out for the show with you. 

before that, even. 

you prayed for a text last winter break in the middle of the night that would ask for you to meet up in that parking lot. 

waited for it on prom night. 

anticipated it for weeks after he broke up with you, thinking he would change his mind.

you aimed for this, saw this coming, even tried expediting the process. 

“we can’t do this anymore, scott.”

“okay,” you can hear how dead your voice is.

“we’re not kids anymore,” he says, “what we do now, it affects more than just us. kevin left yale to be here. fucking _yale_. kirsten left oklahoma. our parents are riding on this thing working out. if we fuck this up — us, the band — it affects a lot of people besides just you and me. we can’t be selfish like this anymore.”

you nod but you can feel your eyes prickling. you blink. 

he’s studying your face when he says, “also it just… feels almost _brotherly_ now."

your heart gains 100 pounds, suddenly too heavy for your body. 

“yeah,” you agree in what you hope is conviction.

“you felt it too?”

“yeah."

theatre kids. they call it acting but they’re really just lying. 

to each other. 

to themselves.


	3. three

**april 2015 –**

“what’s your favorite thing about me?”

you’re a couple of glasses of wine into the night. it’s enough to put a flush in your cheeks, warm up your body a little bit despite the unnecessary A/C blasting (los angeles hasn’t gone from 'vaguely warm' to 'sweltering hot’ just yet, but everyone is too lazy to turn it off. besides, sweatpants are the typical uniform around the house).

your drinking partner has kept up with the pace of your pouring, and due to the noted size difference between you two, he’s much more tipsy than you. maybe beyond tipsy. he goes to reply to your inquiry and you add, “physical straits. don’t be gay and say something about my work ethic.”

your boyfriend is just up the stairs and down the hallway, sound asleep in your shared bedroom in preparation for an early morning call time. you should probably join him. you have rehearsals for a european lag of tour tomorrow.

and yet.

mitch makes a sound of deep thought, taking a sip of his wine to further contemplate. “your work ethic _is_ amazing. but if we’re talking physicaaaallllllll,” he says, drawing out the last symbol before taking another sip, “i love how big you are."

you almost spill the chardonnay pouring yourself another glass and he laughs airily, holding out his glass for you when he notices the bottle is almost emptied. “want me to _top you_ off, babe?” you ask. two can play at this game.

you pour and he swats your other arm, “that’s _not_ what i meant. i meant your stature."

“right.” the sarcasm is dripping. 

“i’m by no means a short person. the kids are always shocked at meet and greets when they see that i’m almost 6 feet tall. it’s because i’m always next to you and you’re such a giant that i look like a little baby in comparison,” he shifts, nuzzling his head onto your shoulder and throwing both of his legs over your lap, the arm of the sofa against his back. there’s 3 feet of sofa just on the other side of you, no need for the two of you to be occupying a lone cushion.

and yet.

“you’re so broad in the shoulders that i look even more petite next to you. and when we cuddle you feel so strong. it’s comforting and... feels safe. and i love that.”

you finish your drink, “so basically you keep me around because i’m a fat ass that makes you looks skinnier.”

he laughs and the sound vibrates against your shoulder, “basically.” he finishes his own drink and sets his glass on the coffee table, taking your glass and placing it there too. when he sits back down he feels even closer, head resuming its position on your shoulder but this time his mouth finds your ear. “and your dick is pretty big too,” he whispers.

he leans back, looks smug. looks at you as if to say, _‘ball is in your court now, you decide how the rest of the night goes.’_

you look at his lips. he licks them. it takes you 4 more seconds to decide, _'yes,'_ and you aggressively grab the back of his neck to bring your lips together. 

he hums appreciatively, letting you lead. the sound of your lips against each other is so loud, deafening in your head, and you hope it’s not carrying up the stairs. there’s music playing from the tv sound system, hopefully canceling anything out. 

your brain chants _more. more. more._ and also chastises you for your lack of will power. how you just couldn’t wait until the end of the week, when you’re in portugal, and there’s 4,000 miles between you and the people who can’t find out about this.

this wasn’t supposed to happen here. it happens on tour frequently enough for it to become a habit but that’s different than this, under the same roof as alex.

you set up an entire living arrangement to avoid this situation. 

continuing to live with mitch alone would have been a mess. it was already getting messy – alex was getting jealous, and mitch’s activities were more obvious. you knew exactly when he was off hooking up with someone because you would find yourself home alone at night. some guy was touching him somewhere, probably west hollywood, and you would let your thoughts eat away at you, waiting up for him to return. 

living alone with alex would have sent the wrong message. it says "this is serious" and "we should think about marriage within the next two years." it would have left mitch alone. what about wyatt? would they have joint custody? would he travel between their respective apartments?

living with alex and mitch would have been a bit too much sexual tension, but that was defused with 3 straight guys thrown into the mix. now it was a frat house. now there was more people around, which lessened the chance of, well, _this_ happening.

as they say – where there’s a will, there’s a way.

mitch sits up on his knees, positioning himself to straddle your lap, bringing your sweatpants-covered groins together. the friction obviously helps, but you’re growing hard just from the sounds he’s making, gasping and sighing, using your tongue as a buffer. you swallow his noises, knowing they would be too loud otherwise. 

he moves on from your lips to your jawline, letting you catch your breath, “ _fuck,_ ” you say quietly to the ceiling as he leaves open-mouth kisses there, a trail leading up to your ear.

he kisses the lobe before whispering, “me?” into it, sounding hopeful.

“yeah?” you ask.

“i want to,” he sounds frustrated, grinding against you, “but i don’t know _how._ ”

you suggest, “your room?”

he rejoins your lips briefly, pulling your bottom lip with his teeth as he pulls away again before you can get too wrapped up in it, “you know i can’t be quiet enough for that.”

you lick your lips, “what if i… gag you?”

“oh yeah?” he continues to whisper into your ear, “what are you gonna gag me with?”

“what?” you ask, confused. your hands are now gripping the globes of his ass, as he thrusts down particularly hard, “does miss kink not have a gag ball?”

“maybe i do. maybe i just want you to be more creative.”

“in that case,” you’re trying to keep your voice as quite as possible, lower than the pop radio still playing, “maybe i’ll use one of your scarfs. or shove you face first into the pillow and let that do the work. or maybe i’ll use my, in your own words, ‘huge dick’ to keep you quiet.”

he gasps, hiding his face in your neck, “i said big, not _huge._ they have different connotations,” he teases.

“it’s the same thing, you’re just being a _brat,_ ” you punctuate the last word by lightly spanking his ass, light enough that it doesn’t create a sound that could carry upstairs.

what could carry is the uncensored groan mitch makes that follows. 

your hand quickly flies up to cover his mouth, both of your eyes wide. you stare at each other while some pop song you think might be charlie xcx plays from the television, but it’s mostly drown out by your rapid heartbeat. you strain your ears for movement coming from upstairs. there’s someone moving around one of the bedrooms but it’s on the opposite side of the house than where alex would be. 

you slowly lower your hand from mitch’s mouth and he let’s out a sigh of relief. 

“i’m sorry!” he whispers, “but, in my defense, you should know better by now than to spank me when i’m trying to be quiet."

you shake your head, “it’s okay, we’re okay,” and reconnect your lips, dipping your hands into the back of mitch’s sweats and boxers, grabbing bare ass. 

a mere minute later a door opens upstairs and mitch goes flying off of your lap, grabbing the 2 glasses and empty bottle of chardonnay off of the coffee table, “i’m gonna go open us another bottle.”

you nod and look behind you and slightly up to see hayden walking across the catwalk that leads to the stairs, tucking up your legs to hopefully hid the tent in your pants. 

“hey, what’s up,” hayden calls over the railing.

“not much,” you reply, trying to be casual, “having a wine night with mitch. chilling. relaxing before tour.”

“damn alcoholics,” he jokes, holding out his fist for you to pound as he walks past the couch. you bring your fist up to meet his before he carries on to the kitchen where mitch is, opening up another bottle of white wine.

“where you off to? wanna join us?” you hear mitch ask him. you mentally curse him out, why would he invite hayden to sit on the couch with them while you're nursing a raging stiffy?

“maybe when i get back,” hayden replied, “going to the gym.”

“it’s 11pm.”

“gym is open 24 hours, hence the name '24 hour fitness,'” you hear a cabinet open, “did justin eat all the fucking protein bars again?”

mitch laughs, “i’ll pick up more when i’m at whole foods tomorrow, all the kombucha has mysteriously vanished as well.”

“wasn't me, that stuff tastes like vinegar.” 

“it was probably scott, he just won’t admit it.”

“why would i drink your fermented bacteria?” you shout from the couch.

“bitch, don’t act like you haven’t put grosser things in your mouth before,” mitch counters. 

you can hear hayden laugh as he opens the door to leave, calling out a “bye,” that mitch echoes.

mitch returns moments later with 2 new glasses of wine, handing one to you, “we should watch a movie,” he says as he flops back onto the black leather sofa and cuddles back against you. 

you blink, “are we not—?"

mitch looks at you confused for a minute before his eyes go wide, whispering frantically, “are you crazy? didn't you just witness us almost getting caught?”

“but—“

“at the end of the week. go shower. think about what we’re gonna do in libson. and barcelona. and berlin.”

you groan, throwing your head against the back of the couch, wishing that mitch’s moral compass would be more consistent. mere moments ago it wasn’t showing which way was north.

“or think about alex. whatever gets you there. i’m queuing up _chicago,_ ” he smirks into a sip of his new glass of wine, using the tv remote to stop the music, your little bubble of privacy bursting, and switching over to netflix. 

you hate him so much. 

and yet.


	4. four

**november 2013 –**

_ knock knock knock _

“what the fuck...”

a weight on your chest and a stark white light wakes you from your sleep. 

you shield your eyes from the bright light, confused before your brain can take in your surroundings.

“alex, what—"

“there’s someone knocking on your door at,” he illuminates his phone again and you shove your face into your pillow, groaning, “it’s almost 2 in the morning.”

“just ignore it,” you mutter, “it’s probably my neighbor’s girlfriend, she mixes up the door numbers."

_ knock knock knock _

you roll your eyes behind their lids, letting out a frustrated groan.

the doorbell starts to go off.

“ _scott_ ,” alex says, pointedly.

_“fine!”_ you throw the duvet off of your naked body and search for your discarded boxers, finding them over beside the door that leads to the living room. you're rubbing the sleep out of your eye as you drag your feet to the front door. whoever is on the other side of it knocks again, sounding frantic. you huff angrily, "i’m _coming_.”

peeping through the peep hole, you expect to see the blonde barbie the guy next door calls his girlfriend, dressed in a tight club-going outfit, shit-faced, and ready for a drunk hookup. 

it’s not.

it’s mitch.

he looks hysterical, about to knock again when you open the door.

his fist freezes mid-air, and it takes seconds for him to take in your appearance before he breaks down in a cry of relief. on instinct you bring him into the apartment and into your arms, his wet face face against your naked chest. “t-thank god, i was starting to think that you weren’t home and it was g-getting cold,” he cries against your skin, sounding congested.

you card your fingers through his hair, shh-ing his sobs, “you’re okay,” you reassure him, “you’re here now. it’s okay.”

his grip on your bicep tightens, letting out another sob. you don’t have to ask before he mutters, “travis broke up with m-me." 

you suck in a deep breath, tightening your own grip on his waist, “mitch—" but suddenly he’s stepping back a few feet away from you, removing his glasses and wiping his face of tears.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, “didn’t know you had company.”

your eyebrows knot together before you hear footsteps behind you and sense alex’s presence. you look over your shoulder and he’s fully dressed, putting on his shoes. “hey,” he says softly to the two of you, “i’m going to head home.”

“i didn’t mean to interrupt,” mitch interjects, “i can leave and go to kirstie’s instead. i—"

“no, stay,” alex finishes putting on his tennis shoes and comes over to place a comforting hand on your shoulder.

“i can—"

“you’re not interrupting anything,” alex says, “even if you were… you need your best friend right now, i get it.”

“i’m sorry.”

“stop apologizing,” alex continues, his tone a little short. mitch catches it and immediately snaps his mouth shut, staring at the carpet. alex turns to you to give you a small peck on the lips, so quick that you don’t even have time to lean into it, before you’re focused on mitch’s eyes watering as he stares at the floor.

“night,” alex mutters, “feel better, mitch,” he calls over his shoulder.

the door shuts, a little roughly, and then the apartment is silent aside from mitch sniffling, trying to clear out his nose.

you sigh and walk back over to him. “he’s not annoyed at you,” you assure him, grabbing his face, making him look at you. your thumbs wipe at skin under the frame of his glasses, clearing falling tears, “i want you here. okay?”

he nods, “okay."

“i love you,” you kiss his forehead, “go lay down in bed, i’ll be right back."

“no thanks, i’m taking the couch. i know what you just did in that bed.” mitch calls as you head to the kitchen. you laugh breathily, a weight off your shoulders that he’s still cracking you up at a time like this.

you pour two glasses of whatever you can find in the fridge, only there to act as chasers, leaning against the countertop with the palm of your hands to take a deep breath. 

it’s going to be a long night. 

mitch has stripped down to boxers and a wife beater, covering himself with the blanket that lives on the arm of the sofa. when you approach him a hand emerges from under it to grab one of the drinks, and he mutters a soft, “thanks,” as he grips it.

“cranberry and ginger ale,” you supply, turning on a lamp that casts a dull light across the living room before taking a seat beside him. he smiles softly as he takes a sip. 

then there’s silence you observe him staring at the burgundy liquid in his cup. his entire face is red, glasses still a little foggy, wetness under his nose. you lean over to the coffee table and bring a box of kleenex into his lap. 

“wanna talk about it?” you ask. he pulls a tissue from the box and wipes down his glasses before blowing his nose into it. “did you fight?”

he shakes his head, “i haven’t even seen him since this afternoon,” you go to open your mouth and he continues, “i was at the grove shopping, and i got a text that it was over.”

you suck in a breath. 

you’re going to fucking _kill_ travis.

“i had a panic attack. dropped everything and ran out of the store. i tried calling him right away but he wouldn’t pick up until the 20th call,” mitch grabs another kleenex to wipe at his newly wet face, “he said something about how he’d never be good enough. that he’d never be able to compete with you.”

“what?” you ask, bewildered.  

mitch shakes his head, “he went through my phone. he said he was feeling insecure so he went through my phone, purposely looking for something that would — he saw a text you sent. you said something about — how no guy i’ve ever been with has been good enough for me, not even yourself. and it not only cemented the feeling the he had that he wasn't enough but it confirmed that you’re his competition… even though i told him that you and i were years ago, a high school fling that means nothing now, which is why i never mentioned it to him... and it’s the typical light-hearted best friend thing to say, that no one is good enough for me and it’s not like — you’re not personally attacking him.” 

your heart is sinking, “mitch, i’m so sorry. this is all my fault.”

he continues to shake his head, in disbelief and to dismiss you, “it’s not. if it wasn’t you, he would have found something else. my dad has sent me similar texts. about how i’m rushing into something too serious, too young. he would have seen that and been like _‘i knew your dad didn’t like me,’_ ” his words now bitter, "the seed was already there, he just wanted any source of water to grow it so he could leave, and it just so happened to be you."

mitch’s bottom lip is now quivering, “he wanted an excuse to leave me. any excuse. any way out. how is that supposed to make me feel? why did he give me this _fucking_ ring if he was just gonna _fucking leave_?!” he yells in frustration, ripping it off and throwing it across the room. you can hear it make a sound of ‘ding!’ as it hits something, somewhere. 

at the sight — before the thought is even finished — you slap a small part of your brain for thinking so selfishly.

his face falls into his palms, sobbing, and you immediately wrap mitch up in your arms, still cocooned in your blanket, “maybe you’ll get back together?” you offer, “he just needs to grow up a little. gain some more self confidence. it sounds like no matter how much you tell him that he’s good enough, that he’s the one you want to be with, he’s never going to believe you. he has to come to those conclusions himself, and maybe he will with distance and time." 

mitch sniffs at his runny nose, hiccuping, nodding his head. “maybe distance and time will help you discover some new things about yourself too,” you continue, a lump getting caught in your throat, “you’ll both grow and change and then maybe come back together, as more established, more self-aware, more mature people... then you’ll be able to try again and it’ll be different.” 

you can see that mitch is thinking about this scenario in his head, about the future, the possibilities.  

you’ve certainly given it a lot of thought. 

not so much with travis in the mix, but none the less.

“or maybe that won’t happen,” you quickly supply, “maybe this is just the way things are supposed to be. and you’re going to meet a guy in the future who isn’t intimidated or jealous of how big of a star you are.”

“and if that never happens?” mitch whispers, sounding scared.

“and if that never happens, you still won’t be alone,” your voice softer now, “because i’ll still be here for you.”

he leans his head against your shoulder, pulling another wipe from the kleenex box to wipe his face, “i swear to god scotty, even if you’re married to some lucky fucker with gross, bratty children... you better still make me a priority."

you chuckle, "i promise.” you kiss his hair, his face still tucked into your shoulder, mouth pressed against your collarbone. 

you shift to lay down, bringing him with you. opening up the blanket to be suitable for 2-person use. he nestles into your negative space, naked legs slotting together, his feet tickling your calves and his chin pressed against your chest to hold up his face. “am i crushing you?” he whispers, looking up at you. 

his face is dimly lit by the lamp just behind you, making the gold flecks of his eyes shine at you. you lick your lips. your fingertips have found their way to his shoulder blades beneath his black wife beater, dancing back and forth, soothing both of you. he sighs and rests his warm tear-soaked cheek against your chest instead. 

“we should sleep,” you whisper and his shakes his head against you, despite the obvious emotional and physical exhaustion from today’s events. 

to know mitch is to know the most pure forms of both weakness and strength.  he's defeated but also fired up with red hot anger. you can feel it boiling against your skin.

you sigh, hand not occupied with mitch’s back reaching for the remote control on the coffee table. the tv springs to life. late night cartoons are screaming and then softly speaking as you adjust the volume as quickly as you can, the sound fading into the background. 

“scotty,” mitch whispers, staring at the cartoon bird on the screen preforming a monologue, “can i move back in with you?"

“yes, of course,” you whisper, already figuring that was the plan. 

he looks up at you, “can you help me grab all of my stuff in the morning?”

you hum affirmingly and he presses a kiss against your skin as a thank you.  your touch is still performing pirouettes in the valleys of his shoulders, along the joints of his spine. 

a weight on your chest and a stark white light lulls you to sleep. 


	5. five

**june 2015 –**

“so…” 

“so?” the tone is bored. he’s going to polish off his own popcorn before this movie starts. hopefully scott is planning on sharing half of his with mitch, because that’s exactly how tonight is going down.

“so. scott told me that you guys were um,” the blond is leaning over the empty seat towards him, lowering his voice, and mitch’s heart is suddenly beating double time, waiting for the end of alex’s sentence, hoping it’s something like ‘thinking of getting another cat!’ or ‘excited for the next lag of tour!’ but alex finishes with, “intimate on tour?” and mitch nearly has a heart attack, quickly looking around, hoping that none of the families around them heard.

_really?_ they’re going to do this _here?_

“uhm,” is all mitch can supply. he can’t believe scott didn’t give him a warning that he was going to come clean to alex. he can’t believe scott _told alex_ and then left him and alex alone together to use the bathroom pre-movie. 

“yeah, i guess,” mitch chokes out. 

he feels breathless. he’s definitely on the verge of a panic attack, if not already amidst one, and for a good reason. he fucked – has been fucking – alex’s boyfriend. 

alex has a lot of weight and height on him. 

he can’t believe he’s going to die from being beaten to death at a screening of disney’s _inside out_ while scott is in the bathroom.

“you _guess?”_ alex says, sounding amused.

mitch’s hands feel wet. he wipes them on his jeans, contemplating if it’s sweat or popcorn butter, “i’m really sorry,” is all he can say.

“it’s fine.”

mitch’s head snaps up, looking at alex who is looking at him with a soft smile. he doesn’t look angry, just maybe a little sad, “what?"

“it’s fine, mitch. i’m not an idiot, i saw it coming,” alex says. he might as well have slapped mitch across the face, because mitch feels equally as stunted. “just wish you guys would have told me sooner... i kind of got the impression from scott that this isn’t a new development but i was a little afraid to ask how long.”

alex raises an eyebrow at mitch and _oh._  he’s expecting an answer to his curiosity. 

“oh. um,” mitch thinks back, memory foggy, “a little over a year now? spring 2014, i would say. i think.”

“europe?”

“yeah... paris.”

alex snorts, “typical."

“you and him were in a rough patch,” mitch says quickly, trying to defend his actions, “you fought right before we left about the whole living situation, because you wanted to move in and scott and i had been living together since november. our current place wasn’t big enough for you to move in as well and he didn’t want to break the lease.”

“yeah, i remember.”

“scott called for a break between you two and then we were gone for almost a full month and...” he wanders off, allowing alex to fill in the rest. 

they made it 2 days into the european tour before drinking too much red wine, leading them to panting in each other’s necks and spilling into each others fists. they woke tangled together and didn’t speak for 3 days until amsterdam – where mitch was asking to be shotgunned one minute and having slow, lazy sex with his bandmate in a hot-boxed hotel room the next.

it was easy to get carried away after that. between berlin – where the nightlife oozes sex in dark bars with cheap alcohol and terry richardson-esque nude portraits hanging on the walls – and dublin, where the beer pours even more freely. 

mitch knew the sex would be good, that scott already knew what he did and didn’t like, and was technically a single man for the time being, with sex drive that was tenfolds bigger than his. it sure beat looking for a new boy in a different city everyday, although he still browsed the market occasionally for fun. 

“but then when you guys got back from europe, him and i worked it out,” alex says.

“yeah,” mitch says, the guilt trickling in, “and we stopped for a while. months, really. i swear, scott wanted to be faithful to you, it was all my fault.”

“i _highly_ doubt that.” 

"i knew exactly how to get him where i wanted him,” mitch shakes his head, “i completely understand if you hate me now.”

“i don’t.”

“you should,” mitch rubs his hands on his jeans again, “everything was back to normal until we went to australia, and it hasn’t stopped since. but only when we’re on tour... save for an almost slip-up a couple months ago. but we stopped… i…"

mitch wonders what the hell is wrong with him. what’s gotten into him the past year. he’s been so selfish, asking scott for a hand and then taking a whole arm. he can’t stop – he just wants more and more – everything scott’s willing to give him, physically at least, and then some. 

but he doesn’t want scott and alex to break up. he genuinely does like alex, and alex is good for scott. he’s never seen scott happier. alex is scott’s boyfriend and mitch doesn’t want to take his place, doesn’t want him and scott to be boyfriends. doesn’t need scott to be exclusively his, and he doesn’t need to be exclusively scott’s. he likes going off on his own when they’re off tour and falling into bed with local boys who have never touched his skin before, experimenting with different genres of men and finding new things he’s into.

alex reaches over, putting his hand over mitch’s to stop his fidgeting, “it’s fine, relax,” he repeats, “although i’m not too happy about the while-i’m-at-home thing. please don’t let that happen again.”

“okay?” he says, not following.

“scott sat me down and told me and in the end we came to... an arrangement. an agreement,” alex explains, “you’re free to have him on tour. i’m allowed to have my fun while you guys are gone. but when he’s home, he’s mine and i’m his. understood?”

mitch is going to faint, “alex!” he says, a little to loud, causing the woman sitting in the row behind them with her daughter to glare, but mitch to too busy looking at alex in shock and alex is too busy grinning at him.

mitch stutters, “this… it’s a lot. you… are you sure? i don’t...”

alex shrugs and nods are the same time, taking a sip of his drink. then mitch’s sight of alex is blurred and it takes him a second to realize that scott has sat back between the two of them, “got you more popcorn, cause i knew you were gonna eat through yours by the time i returned and you’re not taking mine,” scott says to him, placing a second bag on his lap. 

mitch blinks at it. he’s not left speechless very often, usually having a quick-witted comeback in most conversations, but right now he’s at a loss for words, and scott notices.

“you okay?”

on the wide screen in front them, a female voice is telling them to silence their cellphones, and alex reaches into his back pocket for his. mitch looks into scott’s baby blues, trying to communicate with him what happened while he was in the bathroom and at concession, but judging from scott’s smiling face, he knew that alex was going to talk to mitch about it while he was gone, and left purposely.

he can’t believe this man, his best friend in the world, who has been rolling his eyes and scoffing at mitch’s explanations of his outlook on romantic relationships and new ideologies about monogamy being dead post-breakup for months and months, is now in a quasi-polyagmous relationship that somehow found himself involved in.

as soon as they leave the state, he’s allowed to touch and kiss and suck him without forcing any guilt far down into his conscience. 

mitch grins back at him, “yeah, i’m okay,” he whispers as the room darkens and previews start. he can feel scott slip an arm around the back of his chair. 

“popcorn me, please,” scott whispers into the dark room to mitch’s confusion. when he looks over, he can see that scott is resting his other hand on alex’s thigh, so mitch digs into his first bag of popcorn to feed him. 

through the light of the screen, he can see alex grinning at them, teeth biting into the straw of his large diet coke, and he knows that this will eventually feel normal, even though right now he feels like his world has been turned inside out.


End file.
